


i could use somebody ( someone like you )

by dormant_bender



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Euro 2016, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Game(s), Short One Shot, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, mentions of UCL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7487991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormant_bender/pseuds/dormant_bender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>whenever antoine needs someone, he knows he can always depend on fernando.</p><p>or: <i>you can only fall so far when you have someone to catch you.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	i could use somebody ( someone like you )

**Author's Note:**

> so.. i got a prompt earlier today and, because i have no life, i decided to randomly write it out a little while ago because why not ? :pp
> 
> so this is dedicated to the lovely marie c: 
> 
> (( i hope you like it and that it's what you wanted ? :p x ))

    One might think that after the major loss of the Champions League that maybe all would be well again once the Euros began. Because, of course, the positives are only what one sees with the negatives being at the very back of one's mind.

    Going into it with such confidence had landed the team so far in the competition, defeating teams with such potential and talent, with France somehow winding up in the finals against a very calculative Portugal. And he thinks as he walks out that, yeah, this is his day. This is the day to shine. 

    Fate—always a tricky thing—decided today was not that day, however, as Portugal manages to score one leaving the team in its entirety dejected and unable to come back. Once the game is over, signaling time is up, he's putting on yet another brave smile for the camera's that doesn't quite reach unusually dull blue irises.

    Teammates, equally as defeated and knackered, offer each other reassuring smiles but Antoine doesn't understand because—because there wasn't another game after this, he didn't have another chance to somehow score and reel in the title. And, yeah, he can practically see the downpour of criticism he was bound to receive. 

    Like somehow it all came down to him to score and no one else; not that it isn't completely true, him being a forward and all, but still. Too much pressure, too much stress, too much everything. Eventually the team returns to the locker-room, the sound of crying echoing around him, not that he pays attention to it as he's far too deep in his thoughts to even acknowledge it.

    There are hands clapping him on the back, whispering to him in low French that he did well regardless of the outcome, but it doesn't make him feel better in the least. He thinks it's funny, actually, how words are supposed to make you feel better. So he instead collects all of his things into his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and bids the team adieu with the biggest of melancholy smiles he could manage.

    What the Frenchman doesn't expect when he exits the stadium, however, is the sight of a black van that abruptly scrambles toward the discreet side door. Eyes narrow in scrutiny until the window is slowly being wound down only to find someone hidden behind a pair of black sunglasses, a dust of freckles speckled across newly-tanned skin. 

    "W-what are you even doing here—no, no—how are you here? Aren't you supposed to be—?"

    Lips purse firmly together, the figure nodding his head in the direction of the van. "Are you going to make me get out and carry you into the van?"

    But Antoine is still trying to wrap his mind around this bewildering surprise, awkwardly adjusting the strap around his shoulder. "What? I-I just.. You were the last person I expected to see, or even wanted to see after—after that."

    "You don't mean that, do you?" Fernando inquires with a playful quirk of his lips as he allows the door to swing open, the man scooting over to pat the warmed leather seat beside him. "Get your ass in the van."

    "I sort of just want to be alone right now.. The last thing I want is to cry on your—is that a cashmere sweater you're wearing, Nando?" Regardless of the realization, and vague amusement of the latter's attire, the Frenchman finds his lower lip quivering with the threat of sobbing.

    It's too late to process what the Spaniard is doing though, as chestnut hues roll in response, the man climbing easily out of the van to stroll toward the younger. The click of a tongue is audible before the considerably taller male easily scoops him up, hefting the younger over a shoulder, then transporting him the short distance into the van.

    Sniffling is audible in the otherwise silent van as it begins to move, the elder pursing his lips and narrowing his gaze decisively like he's pondering exactly what he could say to make everything better. Thin lips part once, twice, thrice but nothing coherent spews from them and instead he scoots closer to the Frenchman to embrace him.

    " _Antoine_ —"

    "— _Don't_."

    Nimble fingers trail up and down one of Antoine's arms, tracing tiny shapes into his rapidly pimpling skin. "I watched the game," quietly regards the elder male as he continues his administrations. "And you didn't do bad, regardless of what your mind," he pauses to tap his fingers against the younger's temple for emphasis: "is telling you."

    It's then the facade of being entirely okay with the result of the game dawns on the Frenchman in the form of quaking shoulders and soft sobs. His small form trembles, fingers clenching inwardly into Fernando's shirt, clinging to him and releasing all of the pent-up tension he had built since the beginning of the game. Hell, since the lost with Real Madrid, honestly.

    "That's your problem, you see, you never realize how good you really are." Continues the Spaniard as he presses a multitude of tender kisses to the still-damp locks of the brunet. "You don't need a trophy to show your worth, no one does. It shows throughout the game, every single one you play, really."

    "You don't know what it's like," chokes out the Frenchman as he shakes his head against the soothing heat of Fernando's chest: "to have the whole c-country staring at you, t-telling you that you have to do it all for t-the team."

    All the elder can do is snort, earning an inquisition sound from Antoine in the process. "Well maybe not this year, I didn't called up for the National Team, I guess I really am getting old."

    There's a sharp gasp from the sobbing man, withdrawing entirely from the elder's embrace, eyes wide and apologetic. "I-I completely forgot about that, I-I didn't mean it l-like that—Of course you know, El niño." Somehow the Frenchman manages a soft snicker, receiving a gentle pinch from said man.

    "You know I hate that," scolds the elder but soothes the pinched spot with a ginger stroke of the thumb. "and you being upset about this won't make it okay to say."

    "No, no I know." sniffs the brunet as he shifts until more than half of his form is now on Fernando. "It just made me feel a l-little better, I guess?"

    "How would you feel if you, a mature man, were called 'el niño?' Wait, actually, it suits you well."

    Brows furrow tightly in response to that, lips poking out into a pout, a puzzled look dwelling within stormy blue seas. "Are you calling me a kid?"

    Fernando shrugs a nonchalant shoulder, looking seemingly un-phased by the look he's receiving. "If the tiny shoe fits? You're small like one, petite." 

    "That's not funny." 

    "Neither is the name El niño."

    "That's not un-true." 

    Chestnut hues meet dark oceans then, the two having an unspoken conversation, with the younger snorting a moment later. And, yeah, he sort of does feel like a small child right now. Considering how he's currently within someone's lap, a hand gently kneading at the muscles of his back, lips constantly peppering kisses into his sweaty hair.

    As always the Spaniard is right. 

    Maybe if he avoided the voices at the back of his mind, telling him how horrid his performance was, that maybe he could see the positives. Many other teams didn't have the opportunities that France had—that much was obvious—so he had to be grateful that he had the grace to make it to the final. Then he thinks back to Real in the UCL Final, thinks about how even though Fernando had initially cried, that somehow the man had consoled him throughout it.

    Because Fernando was always there for him, that would never change, that much he knew. Even now he was here, which he would decidedly ask about later. So he may not have a title, so what? He had ample opportunities to come back better than ever to prove that he was deserving—because you know what? He had, had a taste of victory and would try his damn hardest to go even further than before.

    "You're still in that head of yours, huh?" 

    Blink, blink. Lips twitch at the corners until the brunet is grinning broadly, absently swiping at the tears steadily rolling down his cheeks. "No, well.. Yes? Yes and no?"

    "What's on your mind now?" Fernando inquires curiously, a small imploring smile playing on his lips.

    "I can do it, right? I mean—you believe in me.. Yeah?"

    Once more the Spaniard is clicking his tongue, scolding the younger. "It doesn't matter if I do or not, little one." states the elder man, poking the younger square in the chest. "What matters is that you do, not me or anyone else."

    "I do, I think?" Antoine bows his head but it doesn't last for thing. Slender fingers slide beneath his chin, tapping at it, then maneuvering them to lift his head entirely.

    "I believe in you, and you should believe in you too." Fernando states earnestly, eyes searching for the latter's to ensure he has his full attention. "You helped Atleti and France make it to the finals, that counts for something. It means something to me and everyone else." Fingers smooth down the unruly hairs at the top of the Frenchman's head before coming back down to cup his cheek, a thumb brushing along the smooth skin there.

    Another tell-tale prick of tears threatens the back of the Frenchman's eyes, however, as he bows his head once more. But instead of defeat, he leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to Fernando's inviting lips. Softly, he breathes in French, telling the man exactly how he feels about him. He nuzzles his nose against his neck, peppering kiss along the long expanse, lingering where his pulse is strongest.

    "I love you," comes Antoine's breathy whisper as he settles within the crook of the elder's neck.

    "Tell me something I don't know?"

    Cheeks flush considerably at that, knowing full-well that it was rhetorical, but somehow he still manages to chuckle nervously. He leans forward, bringing his lips to Fernando's ear: "I kept a picture of you under my pillow back at the hotel."

    Involuntarily, the Spaniard shivers, shifting his head to meet Antoine's face once more. He makes an inquisitive sound at the back of his throat, to which the brunet nods vigorously at. Amusement flickers across Fernando's countenance but he doesn't breathe a word, instead leans forward to capture pink lips in another, passion-fused kiss.

    Both sigh at the initial contact, shivers tingling down the length of Antoine's spine, as he returns the kiss with an equal amount of force. He barely has time to even think about inhaling for air, not when he has the latter as his literal oxygen, taking what he needs from him. The lack of proper oxygen leaves him heady as he parts Fernando's lips with his own, surging forward with his tongue, tracing every available crevice he has access to.

    Always a gracious lover, the Spaniard doesn't mind, instead allows his head to fall back against the headrest while hands find Antoine's waist. But once the kiss deepens to the point of no return, which Antoine was sort of hoping it would, the van immediately halts outside of a hotel far out from the stadium that belonged presumably to Fernando.

    But Antoine doesn't let up in the slightest, however, as he attempts to continue kissing Fernando. Alas being the mature one of the two, he catches the younger's wrists, places a kiss inside each one of them then gently peels him away. The Frenchman blankly blinks, lips swollen and red, blatantly confused.

    "We have a hotel to ourselves, mi amor." Fernando quips with a devious smirk as he combs through Antoine's locks once more. "Also: I need a little motivation to endure Cholo's rage when he sees I'll be missing the first rounds of training to be with you."

    "Too bad you're not me," the Frenchman's nose crinkles playfully: "I'm his little angel."

**Author's Note:**

> lemme know how i did yu guise c:
> 
> as always, thank you in advance for reading and commenting, it makes my little heart flutter seeing all the nice things you all have to say :3 <3


End file.
